


Three's Company

by blueberrynewt



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Asexual Spock (Star Trek), Bisexual James T. Kirk, Bisexual Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Fluff, M/M, Multi, idk what to tag this, some light angst too but probably nothing really rough, triumvirate gets together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-05 06:37:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18823129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrynewt/pseuds/blueberrynewt
Summary: Or, How McSpirk Came to Be. Post-TOS, pre-Motion Picture (at least to begin with, I have no idea how long I'll continue this) but not necessarily compliant with the movies. We'll see where it goes. Lotsa fluff and wholesomeness, I hope.Inspired by klmeri's story "It's Complicated" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151108/chapters/3314918), which made me so sad I had to come up with a happy ending for it.





	1. Prologue: That Which I Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Drabble Bin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151108) by [klmeri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klmeri/pseuds/klmeri). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock begins to realize that leaving may have been a mistake.

The sun is setting. The sky fades to a dusky orange, casting the craggy hills in stark silhouette. Notice the hill second from the left, with the tumbled southern slope. Zoom in on the crest of this hill and recognize something else in its outline: a seated figure.

This figure sits calmly, straight-backed and unmoving. If not for the dry evening breeze that tugs at loose ends of his woven robe, you would take him for a statue. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady. He seems to be part of the land he sits on.

The top of the sun vanishes below the horizon, and the figure opens his eyes. He does not get to his feet at once, but stares at the horizon for several long seconds. For a fraction of a second, his brow furrows, then he resumes his carefully neutral expression. If you knew him very well, you might think he was trying to put away a troubling thought, but you don’t know him that well. Few people do.

He rises, then, and turns to the northwest. Follow his gaze and you will see a city there, glowing in the lingering light of evening. Closer by is a solitary house among the hills, and it is to this house that the figure turns, making his way down the treacherous slope with practiced ease. He does not hurry, nor does he dawdle. He goes.

When he reaches the house, many stars glimmer in the mantle of the sky. On the doorstep, the figure pauses for a moment. He glances upward searchingly, as if to seek out one star in particular among the myriad. He knows, of course, where that star will be in his sky, at this hour, on this day of the year. It’s an easy calculation, one he memorized without really meaning to. But that star is too small and faint to be seen before the sky is fully dark, and the figure turns away after barely a second. It is a pointless thing to look for a star, in any case. The star is there, whether he sees it or not.

When he enters the house, a woman rises from her seat to greet him. “Spock,” she says warmly, and holds out her hands to him. He takes them, and notices their frailness. Amanda is growing old, and the difference between human and Vulcan lifespans is increasingly apparent in this house, for Sarek, at a hundred and twenty, is still only middle-aged. Spock looks to his father, who has not glanced up from the report he is reading, and wonders briefly how long he himself will live.

For the barest instant, he finds himself hoping that he will live a human lifespan, rather than linger on for decades or centuries as Sarek will after Amanda is gone. The thought puzzles him — he is not used to wishing for things, and what an illogical wish it is, to hope to die sooner rather than later.  But now is not the time. He files the unexpected feeling away, to be dealt with at his evening meditation.

His mother ushers him in for dinner and watches him quietly. He visits their home only occasionally, preferring to spend most of his sabbatical at the Vulcan Science Academy. Sometimes, she knows, he goes into the desert for days at a time, seeing no one. She wonders what he seeks on these long walks, but knows better than to ask.

After they have eaten and cleaned, Spock moves into the next room and takes an instrument down from the wall. He has his own lute in his quarters at the Science Academy, but he did not bring it today, and he knows that Sarek rarely plays anymore. Unsurprisingly, the strings are out of tune, and he takes a few minutes to correct them. Then he pauses, fingers hovering over the strings as he considers what to play. He settles on an etude he learned as an adolescent and plays it expertly. Amanda enters and sits beside him to listen, features softening in a smile. She is so very human, Spock thinks, and finds himself a little ill at ease. That is one reason he rarely visits his parents, though he would never admit it to anyone — least of all Amanda. There is something about her humanness that discomfits him.

As he ponders that, his fingers falter, and he hits a string a fraction of a beat too late. Most humans would not notice such a discrepancy, but Amanda has spent enough of her life among Vulcans that any imperfection stands out like a blister. She frowns, but says nothing until Spock has finished his piece.

As the strings vibrate into silence, she glances at the door to the front room. Sarek is still poring over his report, making notes on another padd, his concentration apparently fixed. Still, she knows from long experience how sharp Vulcan hearing can be.

“Would you care to join me in the back garden?” she asks Spock, who meets her gaze. He nods, and they rise together and go out. They sit on a bench, Spock still holding the lute under one arm, and look out at the city under its field of stars.

“You wished to speak to me, Mother?” Spock prompts. She smiles a little, then her expression turns gentle and serious again.

“What’s bothering you, Spock?”

“Bothering me?” he repeats, with the hint of a frown. “I assure you, I am quite —”

“You missed a note when you played,” Amanda reminds him. “And there have been other signs. You’re preoccupied.”

Her son’s fingers trail over the strings of the lute, and a melancholy chord winds itself into the hot, dusty Vulcan night. He takes a long time to answer.

“You are correct,” he admits at last. “I am restless.”

She nods. “Restless for what?” she asks.

“I do not know.” He listens to the hum of insects, beyond the range of her hearing. “I requested this leave in order to pursue my own interests. But I find my thoughts are not here.”

Amanda regards him steadily, compassionately. “I understand,” she says. “You came here to seek what is important to you, and you’ve found instead that what is most important is elsewhere.”

“Yes.” He plucks a single note and listens to it fade, calculating the distance the sound wave will have traveled in the time it takes the string to stop vibrating. “That which I left behind, I think, is that which I always sought.”

They are silent for several minutes. If Spock concentrates, he can hear his mother’s heartbeat. He compares it to his own, ponders the genetic complexities of creating a viable offspring from two species with such different physiological makeups as humans and Vulcans. There have been papers written on the subject, and he’s read them all. He’s written a few, too.

“What will you do?” Amanda asks finally. Spock considers the question.

“I do not know,” he says honestly. “What do you suggest I do?”

She smiles again. It’s been a long time since he asked her for advice. “I think,” she replies, “you still have five months of your sabbatical left, and that seems like plenty of time to go and find what you seek.”

He breathes in and out three times, calculating the rate of airflow through his trachea and the corresponding pressure difference between the inside and outside of his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is very low. “Then,” he says, “I shall seek it.”


	2. Calculated Risks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triumvirate, Assemble!

Doctor Leonard McCoy is not in a particularly good mood. He’s known for his grouchiness, of course, but usually it’s at least partly an act. He does have a reputation to maintain, after all. Today, though, he’s feeling genuinely sour. He doesn’t like mysteries or surprises, and an unexplained summons from a decidedly unforthcoming Vulcan only makes him suspicious. On top of that, his train to San Francisco had mechanical problems en route and took twenty minutes longer than scheduled, which means he had to forego his favorite coffee shop and settle for train station coffee. The watery brew did little to alleviate his growing headache, and he squints bad-temperedly at the sun as he trudges down a trail to the point Spock indicated. He glances at his watch, and sees that he still has three minutes before ten o’clock. Not bad.

Leonard rounds a corner, and the sight of a familiar figure lifts his spirits a little. It’s Saturday, and the other man has eschewed his Admiral’s uniform for nondescript civilian clothing. His hands are in his pockets and he bends over to read the sign at the base of a tree, then straightens and turns as Leonard approaches.

“Bones!” exclaims James Kirk, treating Leonard to a broad grin. It’s hard to maintain a bad mood when faced with that smile, and the doctor can’t help returning it as his old friend takes him by the shoulders and surveys him critically. “Retirement treating you well, I take it?”

“Oh, yes, the Denobulans are taking very good care of me,” Leonard agrees. “Maybe _too_ good,” he confesses, patting his stomach. Jim laughs and puts an arm around his shoulder.

“Always said you needed more meat on your bones, Bones.”

“Hey.” Leonard wags a finger. “If anyone needs more meat on their bones, it’s that beanpole of a Vulcan we’re supposed to be meeting. Did he tell you anything about this?”

“No,” Kirk replies, “only that he wanted to talk to both of us and to be at these coordinates at ten this morning. I wonder what’s keeping him?” He checks the time — 09:59:24. “It’s not like Spock to be late to anything.”

“It’s not like him to be early, either,” Leonard points out. “I wager he’ll get here _precisely_ at ten — not a second before or after.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Jim says, and they watch the seconds tick by. At 09:59:50, they start to count down in unison.

“Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four —”

Spock comes around the tree. Jim and Leonard look at him, then exchange glances.

“Why, Mister Spock,” Jim remarks, “you’re early.”

Spock raises one eyebrow. “On the contrary, Captain, I believe you will find your timepiece is approximately three point two seconds slow. I am on time.”

Jim gapes and stares at his watch, pulling out a padd with a synchronized chronometer to compare the times. Leonard leans over his shoulder, then looks at him, grinning, and claps him on the shoulder.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like you lost the bet, Jim. Better luck next time.”

“What were we betting, anyway?”

“Oh, uh…” Leonard frowns. “Good question.”

Spock is regarding them with an unimpressed expression, but as Spock nearly always looks unimpressed, they take no notice. After a while, though, Leonard can’t take the suspense, so he folds his arms and meets the Vulcan’s unreadable gaze.

“Why are we here, Spock?” he asks.

Spock seems puzzled. “I assume, Doctor, that you are here because I asked you to be here.”

Leonard rolls his eyes. “Well, why’d you _ask_ us to be here, then?”

To both humans’ surprise, Spock seems to hesitate momentarily before answering. When he speaks, it is clear that he’s choosing his words very carefully. “Gentlemen,” he begins, “would you not agree that it is illogical to ignore that which is obvious?”

They trade confused glances, then Jim says slowly, “Yes, I think I’d agree with that. Unless there were a very good reason for ignoring it, of course.” Leonard nods.

“And would you likewise agree,” Spock goes on, “That it is logical to pursue happiness, even at the risk of failure, if the benefits of success are great enough?”

“Well, sure.” It’s Leonard who answers this time. He wonders where Spock is going with all this. “You gotta take some risks in life, or you never get anywhere.”

“If the odds of success are sufficient,” Spock persists, “one could assign values to various possible outcomes, and calculate the expected value of any endeavor. And if the expected value is beyond a certain threshold, then is it not logical to pursue the endeavor, despite the risk?”

“You’re talking in riddles, Spock,” grumbles Leonard, some of his bad mood leaking back in. “Get to the point, will you? Or did you just call us both here to lecture us about basic probability?”

“I did not.” Spock clasps his hands behind his back and turns to investigate a flower near his head. “I called you here to tell you something, and also to ask you something.”

“Well, get on with it, then,” says Leonard.

“What is it you want to tell us?” asks Jim.

Spock takes a deep breath. “I do not know how to begin,” he admits. “It is…difficult for me to say.”

Jim takes a step closer to him. “The truth, Spock,” he prompts. “Just tell us the truth.”

At last, Spock meets his gaze. “You know, Captain — Admiral — Jim — that I applied for a sabbatical shortly after you accepted your promotion.”

He nods. “Yes, I heard. You went back to Vulcan?”

“Yes. I joined a research team at the Science Academy. We were studying interdimensional particle physics, a subject that has interested me greatly since our experiences with parallel universes on the _Enterprise_. And yet, I found that the research did not hold my interest as it should have, and I was slower than my fellow scientists.”

“Slow, Spock?” Jim interjects. “You?”

“Indeed, Jim. I meditated for many days and nights, seeking the cause of my discontent. Eventually, I discovered that my inefficiency was not caused by illness or by my environment, but by my separation from the people with whom I have worked for many years. In particular,” he adds, looking Jim squarely in the eyes now, “from you. And from you, Doctor.” He turns his gaze to Leonard.

They both stare at him for several seconds, nonplussed. Then a slow smile begins to creep across Leonard’s face, and he nudges Jim in the elbow. “Hey, know what, Jim? I think he’s trying to say he missed us.”

“You know, Bones, I do believe you’re right.”

Spock raises that eyebrow again. “A human expression, Leonard. But not inaccurate,” he admits. “I am, after all, half human.”

“So you are, Mister Spock. So you are.” Jim is grinning so broadly that Leonard’s cheeks ache in sympathy.

“You mean to say you came all the way from Vulcan just to tell us you missed us?” Leonard asks, doing his best to hitch his grumpy demeanor back into place. “Couldn’t you have told us that in a message?”

“Perhaps,” Spock concedes. “However, I also —”

“You wanted to ask us something,” Jim finishes, his smile shifting into a curious expression. “Well? What is it?”

“I —” Spock falters. “I am sorry, Jim. Leonard. This is a human custom, and I am not well-versed in it. I fear I may make an error.”

“Well, don’t worry about it,” Jim says. “We won’t judge you, right, Bones?”

Leonard has no idea what’s coming. “Spit it out, Spock,” is all he says in response.

Spock steeples his fingers in front of him and surveys their tips. “Very well,” he says finally. “My inquiry is thus: would you, James Kirk, and you, Leonard McCoy…consent to go on a date with me?”

There is a long silence. A flicker of consternation crosses Spock’s face, and he looks between his human companions. “Have I said something wrong?”

Jim seems to remember his voice at last. “No,” he says hastily. “No, Spock, you haven’t…said anything wrong.” He gives the Vulcan a quizzical smile, then turns that smile on Leonard. “Well, Bones? What do you say?”

Leonard is still gaping. “I…did you say a _date_?”

“That is correct,” Spock confirms. “Do you find the idea disagreeable?”

“I —” Leonard looks helplessly at Jim, who just grins and shrugs at him. “No, that’s — that’s not it, I just — Good lord, I’ve never been asked out so formally in my life! Mind you, it has been a while since I’ve been asked out at all. You made it sounds like we were about to be sworn into the Presidency.”

“I apologize for my ignorance.” Spock watches him.

Leonard shifts uncomfortably and looks at Jim. Their eyes meet, and Leonard feels suddenly reckless. “What the hell?” he says, spreading his arms and laughing aloud. “Let’s do it.”

 

***

 

They have their first date in a waterfront restaurant in Sausalito, which was once a favorite weekend haunt of Academy students. These days, it’s mostly full of old fogeys like them, plus some families. They take a booth by a window and watch clouds drift by over the bay, all of them now unsure how to talk to each other. San Francisco’s skyline glitters in the light from the lowering sun.

At last, Leonard is unable to bear the silence, so he clears his throat and peers at the menu and says, “I seem to remember they did a great corn chowder here.”

“Corn chowder?” Jim looks affronted. “Bones, this is a _Bolian_ restaurant! You don’t go to a Bolian restaurant to eat Earth food. It’s not — it’s not _logical_. Wouldn’t you agree, Spock?”

“I dunno about you,” Leonard retorts, “but I go to a restaurant to eat food that I want to eat without having to make it myself. And right now, I want to eat corn chowder, so that’s what I’m gonna order. Now, _that’s_ logical, wouldn’t you say?” He addresses this last comment to Spock, who looks between the two men across from him with a faint and peculiar expression.

“What are you lookin’ at us like that for?” Leonard demands, bristling at the scrutiny. Spock raises both eyebrows at him.

“I was merely hypothesizing that if this evening is any indication, this relationship should prove to be a very…interesting experience.”

“Relationship?” Jim smirks and sits forward. “So you think there’s going to be a second date, huh?”

“Is that not customary?” Spock looks from Jim to Leonard. “I was under the impression —”

“Well, you see, Spock,” Leonard explains, “it all depends on how the first date goes. Impress us tonight, and we might be willing to take you out again.”

“I see.” Spock glances sideways, then turns his attention to the menu.

The waiter comes to take their orders. Leonard asks for the corn chowder, while Jim and Spock both get Bolian dishes. Jim mispronounces the name of his meal so badly that he has to repeat it three times before the waiter understands, while the foreign words roll off Spock’s tongue so easily he might be a Bolian himself. They all sample each other’s dishes, and Leonard has to admit that he probably should have taken Jim’s advice and gotten Bolian food, though Jim himself declares the corn chowder a masterpiece.

The meal passes in amicable banter, none of which Leonard really remembers afterward. By the time they leave the restaurant, the sky is dark, and they catch a shuttle back to Jim’s house in San Francisco. Spock excuses himself for his evening meditation, and Jim invites Leonard into the dining room for drinks and conversation.

“Quite a day, eh, Bones?” he says, settling onto a chair with a sigh and swirling his whiskey around the glass. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Certainly not me,” Leonard agrees, taking a mouthful of his own drink. “If you’d told me at this time yesterday…well, frankly, I woulda laughed in your face. _Spock_ , of all people.”

“I know.” Jim laughs, then takes in Leonard’s frown. “Hey, why the long face?”

Leonard snorts and downs the rest of his drink. “Oh, I’m just beratin’ myself.”

“For what?”

“For not thinkin’ of it first! Jim, can you believe you and I let _Spock_ figure out his feelings first?”

“Oho,” Jim grins, “so you have _feelings_ , Doctor? Do tell.” He leans forward, elbow on knee, with an innocently eager expression on his face. Leonard huffs and pours himself another drink.

“Why did I ever agree to this?” he asks the ceiling.

“Because you’re so absolutely smitten with us, obviously,” Jim replies.

“Absolutely driven up the wall is more like it.” All the same, Leonard can’t keep a broad grin from spreading across his face.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling, but knows Jim is still watching him, and is not altogether surprised when Jim asks, “Can I…kiss you?”

He drops his eyes to meet Jim’s hopeful ones, and raises a stern eyebrow. “Not if I do it first,” he shoots back, then pauses. “Huh. That was supposed to sound ornery.”

Jim laughs. “No dice, Bones. You overshot ornery and somehow managed to land on flirtatious.”

“‘S your fault,” Leonard mumbles, as he leans forward and presses his lips to Jim’s. “So much for my reputation.”

 

***

 

They sleep in separate rooms, partly because Jim’s house is big enough and partly because while this is all wonderful and exciting, it’s also terrifying, and all of them feel the need to take things slow. Leonard wakes last, and comes downstairs to find the others already seated at the table. Jim is nursing an enormous cup of coffee, and Spock holds a tall glass of some Vulcan drink Leonard has seen and smelled on a number of occasions, but never dared to taste.

“Morning,” says Jim, looking up as Leonard makes his way down the stairs.

“Morning,” grumbles Leonard. “Coffee?”

“In the pot.” Jim gestures, and Leonard goes to pour himself a cup. Returning to the table, he sits down beside Spock and takes a sip, sighing in appreciation.

“Good brew, Jim.” He looks at the two faces watching him, and sits forward. “Listen…” He trails off and takes a moment to enjoy the growing worry on Jim’s face and the crease between Spock’s eyebrows as they wonder what he’s going to say. Then he grins and says, “I had a great time last night, any chance I could take you two gentlemen out again sometime?”

“Why, Leonard,” Jim exclaims, sitting up straight. “Don’t you think that’s a little forward?”

“Indeed,” Spock agrees, raising an eyebrow. “It is not customary to wait at least a day after the first date before calling back?”

Leonard splutters. “But I’m not calling anyone,” he protests. “I’m sitting at a table with you.”

Jim assumes a sanctimonious expression. “After all, Mister McCoy, we hardly know each other.”

Leonard looks back and forth between them, open-mouthed, for several seconds, then goes back to his coffee. He knows when to give up.

They let him sip for a little while in silence, then Jim leans over and pokes his forearm. Leonard looks up and meets his gaze.

“The answer’s yes, by the way,” Jim says. “You knew that, right?”

“He must have known,” Spock interjects. “It would be highly illogical —”

Leonard chokes on his coffee, lets out a loud laugh, and puts an arm around the Vulcan’s shoulders. “Spock, darlin’,” he grins. “I hope you never change.”


	3. Rain and Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are good, mostly.

It’s drizzling as Jim steps off the transport shuttle and turns toward home. March is not his favorite month in San Francisco — foggy, chilly, relentlessly grey. These days, the damp weather makes Jim’s bones ache just a little, and he resents this as he resents all the signs of aging: the scattered grey hairs, the deepening lines around his eyes, the way people seem to treat him with an extra measure of respect without being asked. That last one is probably due more to the Admiral’s uniform he wears than to age, but hell, he resents the uniform too. He should be commanding ships, exploring the stars, not sitting behind a desk at Starfleet Headquarters and issuing orders over subspace. Besides, “Admiral Kirk” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

He thinks of springtime in Iowa, all melting snow and bright sunshine, and for a moment wishes he was there, not in this dreary old city where the ocean swallows up the seasons the way the fog swallows up buildings and hilltops. He feels stale, tepid. Like he can’t touch anything. He’s spent all day in meetings about various minor crises cropping up all over the quadrant, calling up starships to order around young captains who look at him with a touch of awe even over the computer. Things are happening in the Federation, lots of things, and he knows it’s all very important and he has a major role to play in all of it, but it’s all a little vague around the edges and doesn’t seem to matter as much as it should.

He finds himself on the doorstep of his house and looks around out of habit, to take in the view over the city. That’s one thing he can say for San Francisco: with all the hills, you get some fantastic views. He glances at the sky and smiles slightly. Another thing this town has going for it is a lot of rainbows.

He lets himself in and looks around, but there’s no sign or sound of anyone else. He calls out, “Bones? Spock?” just to be sure, but knows they won’t answer. The house is big and silent and empty, and he goes to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea to fight the chill.

They show up about ten minutes later, while he’s still sitting at the table sipping at his tea. Bones is holding onto Spock’s arm and laughing uproariously as they come through the door, and Jim feels his mood lift like a physical weight as he looks at them. Spock, as usual, looks entirely nonplussed by the doctor’s behavior.

“Hiya, Jim,” says Bones when he recovers enough from his laughing fit to be able to speak.

“Hi, Bones. Spock.” Jim raises his mug in a salute, allowing himself to smile.

Spock nods courteously and says, “Good afternoon.”

“What’s so funny?” Jim asks, and Bones doubles over again, cackling, one hand still on Spock’s arm. Spock raises one eyebrow and studies a painting on the wall.

“You shoulda seen him, Jim,” Leonard gasps, wiping his eyes. “This poor girl at the bus stop — she must not spend a lot of time around Vulcans — oh, she was trying _so_ hard.”

“Trying to do what?”

“To _flirt_! She complimented his shoes — which I gave him, by the way — gave him her number, kept trying to start a conversation, the whole shebang. Well, of course he responded exactly the way you’d expect — ‘It is illogical to disclose your personal contact information to a stranger,’ ‘You appear flushed; do you require medical attention?’” He laughs again, tipping back his head. “She didn’t know what to do, poor woman.”

“I was attempting to be kind,” Spock says, glancing over at Bones. “Obviously, I could not return her interest.”

Jim watches them and feels better than he has all day. Who would have imagined, after everything, that they would end up here? He spent so many years being lonely, longing for love and believing he could never have it, when all along the answer was staring him in the face. How many times, on the _Enterprise_ , did he sit in his chair with Spock on one side and Bones on the other, listening to them quibble over some point of ethics or logic, and feel he was home? As many times, he ignored the feeling, not daring to wonder what it might mean. Not daring to believe that there might be something more in those moments.

But they’re here now, and he supposes that’s what matters, in the end. Thanks to Spock, they found their way back to each other, and his house and his heart feel full for the first time in…well, a damn long time, anyway. It’s nice to have people.

They join him at the table. Bones steals a sip of his tea, makes a face and tells him it would be better if it had bourbon in it. Spock asks about his day at work, and he says something noncommittal about business as usual, then changes the subject. It turns out that the two of them have been out museum-hopping all day, and Spock has a lot to say about the development of impressionism or expressionism or post-expressionism or neo-impressionism or something. It doesn’t really matter, and Jim listens avidly without absorbing a word. The point is that they’re all there, together. The point is the little gestures Spock makes, his hands describing quiet shapes in the air; the relaxed tilt to his shoulders; the subtle changes in his expression. The point, also, is the doctor’s wry, exasperated expression; the _here we go again_ look he gives Jim; the upward tilt of one side of his mouth as he watches Spock. This is it, this is why.

Jim finishes his tea just as Spock finishes his treatise, and comes around the table to stand behind the two of them. He rests a hand on each of their shoulders and leans over to give Bones a kiss. He sort of wants to kiss Spock, too, but the Vulcan has made it clear he’s not comfortable with that, so he settles for a squeeze of the shoulder.

“I’m glad you had a good day,” he tells them. Bones gives him a little smile and leans his head back against Jim’s forearm, but says nothing. Spock looks up.

“Jim,” he says, and something in his tone makes the smiles fade from both humans’ faces. Jim looks at him.

“Yes, Spock, what is it?”

Spock hesitates momentarily. “I’m sure you are aware that the _Enterprise_ is currently engaged in a high-risk mission of great importance.”

Jim nods. There was talk today of an outbreak of some new plague in the Rigel system, and a cure that only Romulans know how to manufacture. Getting the recipe from them will require diplomatic ingenuity and no small amount of chutzpah. He wonders what Spock is getting at.

 “I have elected to end my sabbatical early, in order to help lead the mission.”

“What?” Jim’s hand slips from Spock’s shoulder. “But they’re sending Admiral Ellison, surely she has the skills —”

“Be that as it may, I am still the captain of the _Enterprise_ , and I should be present.” A Commander Gutierrez has been commanding the _Enterprise_ while Spock is on leave.

Jim sighs, clasps his hands behind his back, and paces around the end of the table. He knows Spock is right, knows that if he were still on active service he would do exactly the same thing. And it’s heartening that, rigid Vulcan logic aside, Spock still has that sense of loyalty to his ship and crew. But —

“Three weeks?” Jim asks, turning around and resting his hands on the back of a chair. “Is that all we get?”

Bones looks studiously at the tabletop. Spock meets Jim’s gaze calmly, maybe a little sadly.

“There will be more time,” Spock assures him.

Jim cracks a smile, but knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is that a prediction, Mister Spock?”

“It is a promise.”

Jim goes quiet at that, studying Spock’s face. Abruptly, he pulls out the chair he’s been leaning on and swings it backwards around the end of the table. He straddles the chair and rests his arms on the back, and looks between the two men in front of him. “You knew, Bones?”

Bones looks up. “He mighta mentioned it when we were at the Exploratorium. Promptly distracted me with a horribly executed exhibit about comparative humanoid physiology, before I could get started yelling at him.”

Jim has to laugh at that. “Good move, Spock.” He’s been on the receiving end of enough of the good doctor’s diatribes to admire a skillful deflection when he hears about it. Then he looks at the Vulcan again, and sobers. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning, 0800.”

“Oh.” Jim unfolds one arm and reaches out to lift Spock’s hand from the table. He’s always a little surprised at how warm Spock’s skin is — Vulcans are so cold, emotionally speaking, that part of him can’t help but assume they’re literally cold-blooded as well. Spock lets him toy with their joined hands for several seconds, then gently closes his long fingers around Jim’s, stilling him. Jim quiets and smiles, inhales slowly.

“Well,” says Bones, his voice strange and loud, “I guess that means we’ve gotta have the party tonight.”

“Party?” Jim and Spock ask in unison, and Jim can’t help grinning.

Bones raises an eyebrow. “Couldn’t let you go off to Romulus without a good going-away party, could we?”

Spock looks distinctly uncertain about the prospect, and Bones pats his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, nothing extravagant. Just the three of us, some good old homestyle cookin’ courtesy of yours truly, maybe a movie. You’ll love it.”

“Based on my past experience with your traditional family recipes, I suspect that an entire meal of ‘homestyle cooking’ may leave me too inebriated to have any opinion on the matter.”

“Hey.” Bones crosses his arms, looking affronted. “A little whiskey in your baked beans never hurt anyone.”

“Indeed.” Spock raises an eyebrow and looks at Jim, who doesn’t bother to stifle his laughter.

 

***

 

That night, they all pile into Jim’s bed well after midnight, having stayed up to watch not one, but two movies on the archaic television set Jim built himself for his last birthday. The first movie was Bones’ choice, but Spock complained so much about the plot holes and illogical character motivations that they let him pick out another. At the end, yawning and groaning, they stagger up the stairs — well, the humans stagger, while Spock holds them upright as best he can — and tumble into bed. The idea that Spock is leaving in the morning still hasn’t really become real to Jim, and every time he thinks about it is like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t want to let the Vulcan out of his sight if he can help it, and neither, it seems, does Bones, who clings to Spock’s arm like a cantankerous limpet. Spock, for his part, makes no attempt to excuse himself from their company, and Jim is sure that he doesn’t want to be alone tonight, either.

It’s their first time all sharing a bed, and it takes them several minutes to sort out their limbs. Spock, like most Vulcans, prefers to sleep on his back, so in the end he lies in the middle with Bones on his left and Jim on his right, each human tucked up under one of Spock’s arms and pillowed on his shoulder. It’s too warm, Spock is like a furnace, but Jim’s not complaining. He kicks off some blankets and closes his eyes, attuning himself to the rise and fall of Spock’s chest.

 _This is absurd_ , he thinks for a second, wondering what the Jim Kirk of ten years ago would say if he could see this tableau. Frustrated, he kicks the thought away. Who cares what ten-years-ago Jim Kirk would think? Right-now Jim Kirk is pretty damn happy.

After a few minutes, Spock stirs almost imperceptibly. “I am sorry to leave so suddenly,” he says in a low voice.

Jim hums sleepily. “You’re doing what you have to,” he points out. “We understand. Don’t we?” Bones’ hand is resting on Spock’s chest, and he pats it. Bones grumbles.

“Sure. Doesn’t mean we have to like it, though.” Jim can’t argue with that.

Spock takes a long, slow breath, and Jim is almost positive he can feel the slightest of tremors in the Vulcan’s chest when he speaks again. “I wished to tell you, before I depart, that I deeply regret the necessity. My time here has been…unique in my life, and very valuable. I am glad I was able to share it with both of you.”

“Glad, Spock?” Bones teases, poking him in the ribs. “Isn’t that a very _emotional_ statement?”

Spock is quiet for a few seconds. “Perhaps so, Leonard,” he says. “But true, nonetheless.”

 

***

 

They are quiet in the morning. Jim makes a pot of coffee as usual, finding some solace in the familiar ritual. He can’t actually taste the difference between home-brewed and replicated coffee, but he likes making it. Living alone, it’s become important for him to have things to do.

Spock doesn’t have much packing to do, having barely unpacked since he arrived from Vulcan weeks before. Long before he has to leave for his shuttle, he’s ready to go and takes to hovering in the kitchen, somehow managing to always be in Jim’s way as he goes about scrambling eggs. Bones joins them a few minutes later, stifling a yawn and complaining about his aching joints, and sets a pot of grits boiling on the stove. He lowers himself into a chair with a cup of coffee and a loud sigh, and tells Jim to stir the grits every few minutes. Jim’s not sure why he’s suddenly the cook, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

Eight o’clock comes too fast, and they see Spock off from the porch. Bones carries his one bag to the door for him, ignoring Spock’s protests that such a gesture is both unnecessary and illogical. In the doorway, Spock takes the bag back and proffers two fingers to the doctor, who smiles and presses his own fingers against Spock’s. They stand framed like that for a few seconds, then Spock turns to Jim.

“Good luck, Spock,” is all Jim can think to say. Spock nods mutely, and repeats the two-finger gesture. Jim returns it, watching the subtle shifts of Spock’s eyes and wondering what’s going on in that head of his.

Spock says, “Goodbye, Jim. Goodbye, Leonard,” and turns to go. They rest hands on his shoulders, back, arms, and reluctantly usher him out the door and down the steps. He pauses for a moment on the lowest step, then carries on.

“Don’t forget to keep in touch,” Bones calls out, and Spock pauses again and turns around.

“I shall call as often as time permits,” he replies, and they both grin at him. He nods, turns around again, and sets off down the street without looking back a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo, for a chapter this short, this sure was a struggle to write. mostly because I have almost no clear plans for this fic, and had a hard time figuring out what to do once the triumvirate was together; also partly because Jim is just...harder to connect with than the other two. I don't really get him.


	4. Empty Chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming apart at the seams, just a little.

And so Spock is gone. After a minute, Jim and Leonard turn away and go back into the house, their mood subdued. They sit on the couch and Jim leans back with a sigh, while Leonard leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” he says.

Jim lets out a huff of air. “Did Spock ever tell you you have a penchant for stating the obvious, Doctor?”

Leonard chuckles drily. “More times than I can count,” he admits.

“Mm.” Jim rubs a hand over his face and is quiet for several seconds. His voice is quieter and a little rougher when he adds, “I’m going to miss him.”

Leonard scoffs. “And you accused me of stating the obvious.” He looks sideways at Jim, then back at the floor, and nods. “Yeah, me too.”

There’s another pause, then Jim says with a little too much confidence to be believable, “The mission will go fine. If anyone can handle the Romulans, it’s Spock.”

“Mm.” Leonard looks at his hands and doesn’t say what he knows Jim already knows: that while Spock is brilliant and experienced and everything a captain should be, he’s still a Vulcan (mostly), and his strict logical reasoning can’t always take the place of good, old-fashioned human intuition. Spock lacks the ability to _feel_ his way through a situation the way Jim can, isn’t prone to the flashes of insight that can make or break a situation like this. Leonard’s no diplomat himself, but he knows that Spock doesn’t have what Jim has when it comes to negotiating with hostile forces. He hope this Admiral Ellison they’re sending along is good.

“Don’t underestimate him,” Jim says suddenly, as if he’s been listening to Leonard’s thoughts. “Spock knows what he’s doing. He’s not all stiff Vulcan logic, you know.”

Leonard purses his lips and nods. “I hope you’re right.”

 

***

 

About three weeks later, Leonard sits on the couch and picks at a loose thread on his jacket. A glance out the window tells him it’s not raining today, but it’s as overcast and gloomy as ever. Seems appropriate. He’s feeling a bit overcast and gloomy, himself.

He imagines what Spock would say to that. _It is illogical to assign human emotions to the weather, Doctor. Those clouds are the result of simple meteorological processes, and possess no feelings or motivation._

“Yeah, well,” Leonard mutters, “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Spock?”

It’s unfair, he knows. Spock has a duty to his ship, and it would be more than remiss of him to ignore that duty just to spend more time with Jim and Leonard. But Leonard’s grumpy, and he might as well take it out on Spock, particularly since Spock is halfway across the quadrant and has no idea that he’s being blamed for the doctor’s mood.

Leonard misses the Vulcan with a physical ache. It’s a familiar feeling: that same ache stuck with him for the three months he was on Denobula, working with the doctors there, only back then he didn’t know what it was. He’d passed it off as culture shock, the stress of integrating into a new environment, maybe a touch of homesickness for the Enterprise.

He snorts and looks at the ceiling. “Shows what you know, McCoy.”

Jim is off at Starfleet, doing whatever a famous admiral does with his days, and Leonard doesn’t know what to do with himself. He could go out, of course; there’s lots to see and do in San Francisco. But somehow he can’t bring himself to move from the couch, and the thought of opening the door and stepping out onto the street is not as appealing as it could be.

Leonard’s a doctor, and also not a fool. He knows the symptoms of depression, has seen them in himself more than once before. Especially after the divorce. There was one time, back then, when he didn’t get out of bed for three solid days, except to use the bathroom. This isn’t as bad as all that, but it’s not exactly good, either.

He has antidepressants, of course, but balks at the prospect of taking them. It’s silly — he knows that if it were anyone other than himself, he wouldn’t hesitate to prescribe the medication — but the thought of taking those pills just makes him angry. The human mind and body are resilient. No need to interfere.

So instead he sits here, hour after hour, the loose thread growing gradually longer until he forces himself to stop picking at it for fear he’ll unravel the jacket entirely. A weak sun filters through the clouds and he settles lower on the couch to avoid it, resting his feet on the coffee table and crossing his ankles. This posture is terrible for his spine.

He jumps a little when the door scrapes open and Jim’s voice calls out a greeting. Has it been that long already? He sits up a little, trying not to look like he’s been in the same place for seven hours, and says, “Hi, Jim.” His voice comes out as a croak. He hasn’t had a drink of water in some time.

Jim pokes his head into the living room. “You all right, Bones? You sound sick.”

Leonard clears his throat self-consciously and gets to his feet. “I’m fine. Just need some water. How was work?”

“Nothing special. God, administrative work is dull. I don’t know whose idea it was to promote me, but I make a terrible admiral.”

Leonard half-smiles and pats Jim’s arm as he slips past on the way to the kitchen. “Oh, you can’t be as bad as all that.”

“I damn near fell asleep twenty minutes into a meeting today,” Jim counters. “The only reason I didn’t is because Admiral Goldman kicked me in the shin.”

“Huh. Maybe you are that bad.” Leonard grins, then sobers. “Any word on Spock?”

Jim shrugs. “More of the same. The Romulans will only give him a little of the medicine at a time. Something about a potential for bio-weapons.” He shakes his head and folds his arms. “They’re toying with us, forcing us to choose which people to save first. The cure definitely works, but none of our doctors can figure out how to make the stuff.”

Leonard frowns. He should be out there, trying to help. He should have gone with Spock. He shakes his head and goes to get a glass of water.

They have dinner, talk, laugh. It’s all pleasant and normal, and Leonard feels…if not happy, at least content. He could go on this way.

Jim goes to bed first, stifling a yawn and bemoaning the need to get up early for a 7:00 meeting. Leonard turns off the lights and sits in the darkened living room for a little while, listening to the sounds of the city. Yes, he thinks, he could go on this way.

When he thinks Jim is probably asleep, he goes upstairs and slips as quietly as he can into Jim’s bedroom. They’ve been sharing the bed pretty much every night since Spock left. He shuts the door behind him with a soft _click_.

Jim’s voice says, “Lights, forty percent,” and Leonard winces and shuts his eyes against the sudden brightness. When he’s recovered enough to see, he makes out Jim sitting up in bed, watching him closely. Huh. Shit.

“What’d you do that for?” he grumbles, taking off his socks.

Jim looks uncharacteristically uncertain. Almost nervous. “Bones,” he says after a few seconds, “won’t you talk to me?”

“‘Bout what?” He thinks he knows, but he doesn’t feel like making this easy for Jim. He busies himself changing his shirt.

Jim sighs. “Come on,” he says. When Leonard turns to look at him, he jerks his head in summons and pats the bed beside him. Leonard goes. His feet feel far away.

When he’s settled, Jim continues. “What’s wrong?” he asks, concern heavy in his voice and on his face.

“I dunno,” Leonard replies, and crosses his arms. “What _is_ wrong?”

Jim sighs again. “Look, I know you well enough to know when you’re out of sorts. You’re too quiet, you never want to go anywhere, you barely cook anymore. You’ve even been avoiding me, which is impressive considering you never leave the house.”

Leonard pushes his lips together. “‘S’not that hard,” he mumbles. “You’re gone all day anyway.”

“Oh.” Jim folds his hands in his lap and looks down at them. “I see.”

“Hm.” Leonard rubs a corner of the sheet between his fingers.

“What do you need?” Jim asks after a short silence, his voice very soft. “What can I do?”

Leonard looks at him, really _looks_ at him for the first time in days, the lines of that face he’s known so well, those wide hazel eyes watching him almost pleadingly. Jim Kirk, hero to a countless multitude, friend to a lucky few. Leonard looks, and looks, and loves him very much.

He leans over and kisses Jim, ever so softly.  “There’s nothing you can do, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Nothin’ at all.” Then he swings his legs out of bed and goes to sleep in the other room.

 

***

 

In the morning, Leonard has made up his mind. He goes downstairs to find Jim already gone to his meeting, the windows open to admit an uncommonly warm San Francisco morning. The coffee in the pot has gone cold, and Leonard paces around the kitchen, testing his certainty while he waits for it to reheat.

Yes, he concludes. It’s the only thing to do.

He glances around absently, and his eyes alight on a piece of paper lying on a counter. Leonard frowns and picks it up. It’s an old-fashioned envelope, and from the weight of it, there’s some kind of letter inside.

He turns it over. In the top left corner of the envelope, hastily penned, is the name _Jim._  In the middle, larger and written with more care, it says _Bones_.

An actual letter. Jim wrote him an actual, handwritten, paper letter. Leonard’s smile falls somewhere between exasperated, fond, and sad. Who else, in this day and age, would go to the trouble to make that kind of gesture?

The coffee pot beeps at him to let him know that his coffee is hot. Leonard goes to get a mug, and leaves the envelope on the counter. He looks at it again, briefly, while he blows on the surface of his coffee a minute later.

He doesn’t open it.

 

***

 

Leonard goes for a long walk that afternoon, all the way up Market Street to the old ferry terminal. It’s a curious building these days, having been built onto over the centuries in a variety of styles. The original nineteenth-century building would have been impressive in its own right, with its central clock tower and rows of white archways. The only ferries that run out of San Francisco these days are gaudy, touristy things, but the ferry building is still a hub of activity. With retail on the first two levels, office space in the south wing, and some sought-after residential units in the north, it’s like a village unto itself. Besides, the view from the clock tower is pretty close to sublime.

Leonard stands out on the viewing balcony and breathes in the scent of the bay. Across the water, Oakland swarms with movement — shuttlepods swooping between high-rises, lifts dancing up and down the sides of buildings, streams of people scurrying down streets. It reminds him a little of some kind of insect colony, and Leonard wonders if anyone has done mathematical analyses of patterns of movement in urban centers compared to anthills, or something.

Spock would know.

Leonard rubs his hands along the railing. _Spock._  He hopes the Vulcan is doing well — or as well as possible, given the circumstances. Blasted Romulans. It’s a mystery why the Federation bothers to maintain diplomatic relations at all. Conniving, back-stabbing bastards, the lot of them.

Well, okay, when the alternative to diplomatic relations is outright war, the choice is probably pretty clear. Still, pretending to be friendly with Romulans is a pastime Leonard doesn’t miss at all.

He watches the shadow of the ferry building stretch longer across the wrinkled, blue-green surface of the bay, and braces himself to tell Jim what he’s planning.

 

***

 

When Leonard gets back, Jim is leaning against a wall near the kitchen, scrolling through something on a data padd. He looks up when Leonard comes in, his face breaking into a smile.

“Bones!” he exclaims. “Where’ve you been? How was your day?”

“I, uh —” Leonard rubs one thumb into the other palm. “I went for a walk,” he says, because he has to say something.

Jim’s grin somehow widens and softens at the same time, and he steps toward Leonard, touching his elbow gently. “That sounds nice.” That relentless gleam of optimism is back in his eyes. “You took my advice, then. That might be a first.”

“Your —” Leonard is confused for a second, then he realizes what Jim must mean and his gaze shifts guiltily toward the kitchen counter. “Oh. Well, you see, I —”

Jim’s smile drops, and he follows Leonard’s gaze to where the envelope is still lying untouched. He crosses the room and picks up the little rectangle of paper, turning it over in his hands. “You didn’t even open it,” he notes, sounding a little bewildered and a little hurt. He looks back up at Leonard. “Why?”

Leonard slumps. He sits on the edge of the couch and rests his face in one hand. The other hand rubs against his knee. “Sorry,” he says, and means it. “I just — look, Jim, I appreciate you trying, but nothing you could say —”

Jim comes to stand near him, leaning one shoulder against the wall and folding his arms. “Bones,” he says quietly when Leonard falters, “I get that you’re...unhappy, but please, you have to let me help. Tell me how to help,” he pleads, and isn’t that just typical of him.

Leonard looks up. “That’s just it, Jim. You can’t.” He takes a deep breath. “Which is why I’m leaving.”

Jim takes a step backward by that, as if the words hit him with a physical force. His mouth opens and closes once or twice before he manages, “You’re _what?_ ”

“Leaving,” Leonard repeats. “Going back to Denobula.” He hates the way Jim’s face looks right now. “I’ve gotta.”

“You —” Jim stammers, shakes his head, turns around and paces a few steps. His body language is defensive. He whirls back around. “Why the _hell_ would you — just when Spock —” He shakes his head again and presses a hand to his forehead, staring at the window. “ _Why?_ ”

Leonard watches him, and swallows twice to dissolve the hard lump of guilt in his throat. “I’ve gotta,” he says again. “This — this doesn’t work. Not with just two of us.” He rubs his palms together; they’re sweaty. “That’s what Spock took this sabbatical in the first place, you know. After you left, with just the two of us, it was...unbearable. We’d look at each other and all we could think was that you weren’t there with us, y’know?”

“And you think, what, it’ll be better if we’re _all_ split up?”

Leonard’s smile is small and bitter. “We’ll get by.” He shrugs. “I just can’t go on sitting around here, wishing Spock were here too. Nothin’ to do all day but pine.”

Jim latches onto that “You could get a job here,” he reasons. “Hospitals are always on the lookout for good surgeons. Any place would jump at the chance to hire _you_.”

“Nah.” Leonard shakes his head. “It’s not that simple, Jim. I just...I need the space. I think we both do.”

“My God.” Jim runs his hands through his hair. “My God, you’re really leaving. This — you —” He gestures helplessly. “ _God,_  I can’t believe — oh, for heaven’s sake, Bones, come _here._ ” He pulls Leonard to his feet, not too gently, and wraps his arms around him.

Leonard sags into the embrace, presses his face to Jim’s shoulder. His arms around Jim’s back feel shaky. For that matter, his legs feel a little shaky too. Come to think of it, he’s shaking all over, and Leonard realizes belatedly that he’s crying, his breaths coming all shuddery and hot tears squeezing out under his eyelids to soak into Jim’s shirt. Jim just holds him, rubs his back and occasionally murmurs, “Bones,” or, inexplicably, “I’m sorry.” Leonard wants to tell him that he’s got nothing to be sorry about, but his throat doesn’t seem to be working.

 

***

 

When he boards the transport for Denobula, Jim is there to see him off. He presses a steadying hand to the small of Leonard’s back, and Leonard is inestimably grateful for the contact. They don’t kiss — all three had agreed that going public with their relationship at this point would just invite gossip, and put an unnecessary strain on everything — but Leonard touches Jim’s hand before he steps away and Jim squeezes his fingers lightly, and both of them know that somehow, eventually, it’ll all work out.

On the shuttle, Leonard pulls an envelope from his bag and opens it at last. Ignoring the curious glances of his neighbors, he unfolds Jim’s letter and settles in to read.

 

 _Bones,_  says Jim’s wide, smooth handwriting.

 

_I’m not sure exactly what I want to say in this letter. I only know that for me, it helps to have something physical to hold onto. Something more than just pixels on a screen._

_I really wish you would talk to me. I hate not knowing how to help. Well, you know that about me. As it is, all I can do is guess, but I’m a pretty good guesser if I say so myself._

_Well, my educated guess is it’s the inactivity that’s getting to you. With Spock gone, and me working most days, you’re on your own a lot of the time, and I know firsthand how hard that can be. When I first moved here, what, eight months ago? living alone was no cakewalk for me. Sometimes I got so bored and lonely I wanted to scream. Sometimes I did scream._

_I had to learn to keep myself busy. That’s why I got in the habit of making food and coffee for myself, instead of letting the computer do it for me. Kept me occupied, productive. Then sometimes you just have to kick yourself until you leave the house and just do_ _something_ _. Take a walk, go to an art gallery, gatecrash a party (yeah, I admit it). Anything to get out of the routine. Routine kills._

 _I guess that’s basically my advice, if you want it. Other than that, all I know to say is that I’m here, always (not literally, I know, but you know what I mean), and I’ll do absolutely anything I can to help, and you can always,_ _always_ _lean on me. Okay? Please lean on me, Bones._

_That’s all. I have to go, I’m late for my meeting._

 

_All my love,_

_Jim_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo! I totally back-burnered this fic after I started writing Constellations (and also getting distracted by other ideas and life happenings and so forth), and I wasn't sure how much I cared about it. but I am pretty fond of it, so here's a fresh chapter for ya.
> 
> (also thanks to the person who just commented on the previous chapter and gave me the motivation to finish writing this one, you rock)


End file.
